Tattered Litany
by ink and ashes
Summary: A catalyst is something that encourages, inspires or helps in advancing and advocating change. It may be an event, a person or a single word. When the world they knew began to crumble, only time will tell what, or who, will usher in a new era.


_Tattered Litany_

**PROLOGUE**

He huffed as he felt the seconds tick by, anxious and edgy, utterly frustrated under the burden of his missive and his own inability to find the blasted mage for which the message was intended for. It grated on his nerves still, how easily he'd fallen for the Revered Mother's ploy, and how very much like a pawn he was in this exasperating power struggle between the Chantry and the Circle. The hostility was thick, the tension thicker with every passing moment he idled around the encampment stationed at Ostagar, and were it not for the idiotically mundane tasks constantly assigned to him by the Revered Mother, he would have happily sidestepped the eggshells and icy glares for as long as possible.

As it stood, Alistair had little choice in the matter. He was a Grey Warden, first and foremost, but all the Chantry saw and cared for pertained to a past he had never asked for. Even now, years after he'd let go of his childish grudge against the Arlessa of Redcliffe, he could not help feeling the sharp stab of bitter resentment towards her for sending him to a monastery at the tender age of ten. What boy, what _normal_ boy wanted to carry out his days at the beck and call of the Chantry? Of course, there were swords to play with, but the restrictions, the lessons, the reprimands, the utter lack of freedom far outweighed the pleasure in a good mock duel. If that were not enough, if the training as a Templar he'd had shoved down his throat were not enough, he had to endure the incessant pulling at his sense of obligation by the various priests and priestesses that decided they wanted a puppet to carry out whatever errand they needed.

The Chantry kept strict control over the only Circle of Magi in Ferelden. All across the many lands of Thedas, the Chantry elected Templars to guard and watch the magi; all Fade-sensitive individuals unwilling to submit to Chantry laws were deemed apostates and thusly imprisoned or slain. As a result, the bond between Templar and mage was infinitely strained and irrevocably intertwined, but it did not stop the ceaseless push and pull. What better way to flaunt one's power, than to have a Grey Warden under one's command? It revolted him.

_Maker's breath_, where the hell was Duncan?

A month had passed since his mentor went off to Lake Calenhad, hoping to demand a greater commitment from the isolated mages. Alistair had greatly desired to join him on the journey to the Tower erected in the center of the lake, a place he had only read about in spite of the relatively short distance from his childhood home in Redcliffe, but when the Warden-Commander said to stay put, he could only do as he was told. Alistair had asked why, even though it was unheard of to question one's superiors, and Duncan had gravely spoken of _strange currents_ and _delicate situations _and _a shift in the balance_ that had gone in one ear and out the other. There were always some strange occurrences when magick was involved, so why couldn't he have gone, too? He'd rather chase down an apostate than play these political games between two sides that resented him in equal measures.

As he ambled by a tent of Ash Warriors and their mabari hounds, he spotted one of the few faces he dared to call friendly. Quickly, he made his way to the Senior Enchanter, who worked quietly at her mortar and pestle. Grinding herbs, probably. She was remarkably proficient in poultices and salves. "Wynne," he greeted casually, unable to hide the relieved smile.

Clear, light eyes glanced up at him, an answering smile on her lips. "Hello, Alistair. What can I help you with today?"

Her simple inquiry sparked an epiphany. _Of course_. "Actually," he began, realization dawning. "I was wondering if you could help me find someone. Do you know an _Uldred_? I'm told he's a Senior Enchanter."

"He is," she affirmed. Her brow winkled a bit more as she took a moment to contemplate. "I believe he went to speak with the Teyrn. But that was over an hour ago, I'm afraid." She frowned. "Did the Revered Mother send you?"

He nodded. "How did you guess?" he asked dryly.

Wynne gave him a sympathetic grin. "Don't let it get to you, Alistair. You're much too young for bitterness."

The older woman had a knack for noticing things others overlooked. Over the past few weeks, she'd amiably and patiently answered all of the questions he pestered her with, quietly satiating his secret fascination with the mystical. Never once did she complain when he poked and prodded her for information, when he watched her mix herbs and magick to heal wounds or cure mild illnesses. It must have been a terrible bother to have him hovering around, but she took it in good humor. Alistair thanked her, grateful to the mage in so many ways, and left to finally complete his errand.

Teyrn Loghain would be discussing strategy and defense with the King, he knew. King Cailan was an easy fellow to like, well loved by his people and celebrated for his generous nature, but it did not stop Alistair uneasiness in the man's presence. It always felt decidedly odd to be in the King's presence, odd to bow, odd to keep his eyes averted. Odder still for a mage to seek out the Teyrn, but who was he to question? He hoped he could just find the blasted man before he went out of his mind; a few more days of trying to find different ways to occupy himself and he was liable to charge off into the Wilds just for the hell of it. So distracted, he did not notice, at first, when he marched past the one person he had been waiting ages for until the low timbre froze his steps. "I see your training still lingers; what has you so focused, Alistair?"

A smile tore through his face before he could help it. "Duncan! Maker's breath, what _took_ you so long?"

They shared a laugh, clasping forearms by way of salutations. "There were a few complications at the Tower," said Duncan with a heavy sigh.

"Oh?" Alistair did not hide his confusion. "I hope things went well with the new recruit, at least."

Duncan shook his head, running a hand over the thick beard that must have developed during his time traveling to and from the Circle. He needed a shave, Alistair noted with a small amount of amusement. "As well as they could go, I suppose." A pause. "I am somewhat relieved at times that our purpose is to fend off the evils that manifest externally instead of those that corrupt the heart."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Is everything alright?" It was not strange to hear Duncan spin cryptic, oft-times prophetic, philosophy, but this did not make sense to him.

With a smile both tired and true, Duncan met his eyes once more. "For now." In an instant, the weariness dissipated, and he was the Warden-Commander once more. "Once you're finished doing whatever had you so enthralled a few moments ago, I need you to gather the recruits. The Joining must be completed before sundown." _Before the battle._ The words were left unspoken. At Alistair's nod, he continued. "I will be by the campfire when you're ready."

Alistair voiced his acquiescence and turned towards the small ramp, purpose lending flight to his step. He did not mind playing runner for Duncan. At least he did not have to worry for malice and hidden agendas in the process. Thankfully, his renewed vigor allowed for a fortuitous search, and he found the mage on a platform overlooking the camp. Alistair approached him cautiously, respectfully even. With Duncan's arrival, a weight had been lifted, and he held more patience with the man than he usually would in this situation. It did not, however, stop Uldred from angrily berating him for having disturbed a _moment of contemplation._ He bore it as best as he could, with only a few barbs of sarcasm slipping through his control, and when their contact came to an end, Uldred turned to leave with a snarl on his lips.

Alistair rolled his eyes, irritated. "Such a shame. I was going to name my child after you… the _grumpy _one."

"Fool," the mage countered, and pushed past someone in his path.

"Isn't it wonderful," he mused, still watching Uldred's retreating back, "how the Blight brings people together?"

He did not expect an answer, and so was understandably startled when he received one. "That's _one_ way of looking at it, I suppose."

Alistair chucked in response and glanced curiously at the new arrival, curious. His eye widened as he tensed, frozen and unsure and unable to think of a single thing to say.

He had not expected her. In spite of the many faces he'd seen, all of the people he'd met, he would have never expected her. For the past month, he'd learned quite a few things—mostly from Wynne, when she had time to share, as the Senior Enchanter slipped into the role of mentor quite easily—and a bit more about the people he would eventually shed blood with on the battlefield; Sir Jory, for instance, would tell any who would listen about his pregnant wife back home, about how hard it was to impress the great Duncan, about what an honor it was to be accepted, even as a mere recruit, into the Grey Wardens. Daveth was not as forthcoming as his fellow trainee about his past, but did not mind casual banter and his easy persona was a relief in the chaos of war. Though the magi steered clear, Wynne was a gentle soul, fair and compassionate—were it not for her presence, he may have fallen on his sword in boredom, much to Wynne's amusement. Even the Ash Warriors, though a bit callous, would tell stories of their origins and their unique technique if one cared to pry hard enough.

Perhaps it was the contrast of snow white hair and a painfully young face, or the spectrum in her large, slanted eyes of amethyst. The pointed tips of her elven ears poked through the curtain of her pale tresses, immediately catching his attention; he'd seen many elves before as servants at Castle Redcliffe, had even interacted briefly with a few, and the Chantry did not hesitate to take free labor where it could. In general, elves were seen as inferior, with the exception of the Dalish, which were considered nothing more than wandering nomads. This one, however, did not have the ragged, haggard countenance of a servant. Her spine was straight, her small face tilted upwards to look him in the eye without hesitation. She watched him as avidly as he watched her, never shying from his gaze, never scurrying away, never so much as flinching when he took an involuntary step towards her.

She was, in a word, breathtaking.

His voice, when he found it again, was deeper than was the norm for him, and he hastily cleared his throat. "Hello," he finally said.

Those eyes of hers, much too large for her little face, studied his armor. After a moment, she asked, "Alistair?"

He nodded. Floundering, he asked, "I don't suppose you're another mage, are you?" He had hoped to shift the channel of conversation into a lighter atmosphere to counteract the heaviness in his chest, but the quip did not have the desired effect. She frowned at him, and when he managed to draw his gaze downward, he could have smacked himself for his own stupidity; her robes of hand-stitched embroidery were a giveaway, even if one failed to notice the gnarled blackwood staff strapped to her knapsack. "I mean," He flailed a little, drawing a conclusion. "You must be the new recruit." _The one Duncan failed to warn me about_, he thought wryly. "Forgive me, but I never caught a name."

"Duncan said I was to meet you before the ritual," she said with a hint of awkwardness. "And… Aethlynne." She fidgeted a bit. "My name is Aethlynne."

A lovely name, despite its obscurity. "Yes, we're a little pressed for time," he explained, feigning nonchalance. "We just need to fetch the other two, and then we can begin." Why was he so bloody uncomfortable? "Are you all set to go?"

"Yes," she answered. Then frowned deeper. "Well… no, actually." She paused, glancing over her shoulder. "I was hoping to purchase a few things, but your quartermaster refuses to sell me anything. Something about _elves with no coin_, or whatnot." She glared at him, though he knew he was not the intended recipient. "He would not believe me when I told him I am to be a Grey Warden."

His own brow furrowed, mimicking hers. "I'll speak to him immediately."

Her ire faded marginally. "I would appreciate that very much, if it is not an inconvenience."

The way she spoke, stiffly formal as if reciting from a textbook, intrigued him, and her easy gratitude made him grin. "My pleasure," he said. "If you'll be so kind as to lead the way?"

Her lips quirked upwards in a small smile. "My pleasure," she mimicked.


End file.
